


find your way back

by GiuliaMed



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Insecurity, M/M, Meet-Cute, Neighbors, POV Martino, Takes place in London, art student!Niccolò
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 15:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiuliaMed/pseuds/GiuliaMed
Summary: As much as Martino has personally grown in the past months while studying in London, he still couldn't figure out how to stop embarrassing himself in front of attractive guys.University AU





	1. a note

Martino was so focused on deciphering the cryptic emojis from Elia, he nearly bumped into the universities' entrance. He stopped abruptly, centimeters before his forehead crashed into the glass door, then slowly pushed it open. As always, it was a struggle to move through the half-asleep crowd of students, but especially today he had no patience for anyone who stood in the middle of the stairs.

> **Martino**  
>  _Where are you?_
> 
> **Elia**  
>  _Sleeping_
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _Shame on you_

Elia wasn't coming, but he had already suspected when he didn't find him smoking outside, so he didn't stop at their usual meeting spot in the hallway. More people were blocking his path and he found his way around them, wondering why it was so crowded, and cursing the person who invented classes at 8 am.

> **Elia**  
>  _As if you're better than me_

The next message was only a middle finger emoji and Marti entered the lecture theatre, embracing the silence; only a few people were already sitting. If he was here this early, he should take advantage, so he strolled down the stairs and took a seat in the front row, facing the lecture table.

> **Martino**  
>  _I'm actually in the lecture hall_
> 
> **Elia**  
>  _Didn't you go to that pub quiz with Fili last night? How are you up so early?_

It was true that he'd give anything to be asleep right now, and his head hurt more and more by the minute, showing him the mistake of not staying in bed. Only it wasn't a hangover, but the lack of sleep this week. He shouldn't have put off working on his projects for so long. His assignments were due next week, and he almost finished all of them, but thinking about it was still stressing him out.

> **Martino**  
>  _No, I had to work on a paper. Do you know what I realized? When you start things on time, they're actually easy._
> 
> **Elia**  
>  _I'm blocking you, Rametta._
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _I'm sitting in the front row because I'm a good student._
> 
> **Elia**  
>  _Asshole._

Marti laughed to himself; he was on edge today, so he had the right to tease. Elia didn't need to know about his unnerving writing session last night, he decided. 

More people coming in broke the calm silence, they tramped through the rows, and he tried to ignore the increasingly loud chatter filling the room. 

The sweater he'd put on in a hurry was too warm for the weather in July, and the heat climbed up his neck and worsened his headache. No breakfast, no coffee and a headache. _Great,_ he thought, rolling up his sleeves. Students filled up the seats beside him and the side door creaked, announcing the professor's arrival.

> **Martino**  
>  _And I booked my flight yesterday. You should too. Only two weeks left._
> 
> **Elia**  
>  _I know.  
>  See you tonight? The guys are coming over around 7_
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _I'll be there_

The lecturer tapped the microphone to test it before welcoming them and Marti's head snapped up, his tiredness gone in an instant. 

He hasn't been paying attention at the beginning while students were still talking and arriving, while the lecturer was checking his book, but now his brain was catching up, and he realized why there were more students than usual in his Monday morning lecture. 

This wasn't his class.

He looked around at the unfamiliar faces, internally slapping himself. How did he end up here?

The guy sitting next to him was typing on his phone, not bothered by the start of the lesson, two cups of coffee and a notebook in front of him. In a last attempt to sort this out as a big misunderstanding, Marti turned to him.

"Sorry, isn't this Professor Hill's lecture?" he whispered in English.

The guy looked up at him, amused. "No, Robert is certainly not Professor Hill."

Marti let out an agonized sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose. Why exactly did he decide to become an exemplary student and sit in the front row today? No way he could get out without everyone noticing, and unnecessary attention was the last thing he wanted. And it would be rude, he tried to convince himself.

"Why do you ask?"

Marti closed his eyes in defeat. "I'm in the wrong lecture."

After a moment of silence the guy burst out laughing, drawing attention from students who turned around to them. Great, now he was embarrassing himself even more. Maybe he fell asleep at his desk last night and this was all a dream, or a nightmare. Maybe he should be allowed to be rude when running on three hours of sleep. 

The other students quickly lost interest in the interruption, but the guy wouldn't stop laughing, now silently, and Martino looked at him properly for the first time, watched his dark curls bounce.

He has never seen him before, he surely would have remembered. 

The guy chuckled with such ease, radiating warmth, soothing Marti's anxiety.

"You think this is funny?" Marti whispered, acting offended. But he couldn't keep a straight face, and maybe laughing about his miserable morning was the only way to cope with it.

"I think it's hilarious," he said with a slight British accent and kind eyes and Marti cursed his luck to have met him at the worst time possible. 

He sipped his coffee with a silent grin and caught Marti's glance. "That's Robert. If you try to leave his class early, he'll call you out and note down your name," he explained, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Marti observed the lecturer who talked in a painfully slow way, only occasionally looking up from his notes. He felt the stranger's eyes on him, as if waiting for a reaction. Marti raised his eyebrows in question.

"I'm kidding," he clarified with a laugh.

"Sorry, my brain isn't here yet." Marti was weirdly embarrassed by letting the joke go over his head. And how was this guy so cheerful this early? 

"Robert always starts with ten minutes of pointless monologue, then struggles to turn on the projector with the slides." The guy leaned in closer. "You can leave while he switches to the presentation."

It was a good plan. He could stay a few more minutes. 

When the guy turned to the notepad in front of him, Marti returned to watch the professor, who was talking about some artist in the nineteenth century, but he wasn't taking this class and instantly lost interest in listening. 

He'd rather continue talking to the stranger. 

Then the professor searched something in his book, flipping several pages back and forth, and the microphone amplified the paper rustling, but most of the student had zoned out anyway.

"How do you survive this?" he asked when the guy looked up to see where the odd noise was coming from.

"We have to turn in our projects at the end, but there's no exam on the stuff he talks about, so I don't listen most of the time." He hesitated, then moved his notepad in Marti's direction. "You just have to keep yourself occupied," he said with a shrug.

The page was filled with doodles of idyllic landscapes and strangely shaped buildings, only the date in the top right corner indicated that these were supposed to be lecture notes. Marti stared at the drawings, realizing that in all these months he's been in London he only made friends with business students or med students or law students or engineers, but never an art student. 

He wanted to say something, comment on how beautiful they were, but the guy spoke first.

"Here." He pushed the second cup of coffee towards him.

"That's really not necessary," Marti assured, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You clearly need it," he teased with a grin and gestured to the empty seat next to him. "My friend isn't coming anyway."

"Thank you." Marti took the coffee, warmth spreading in his fingers and down his throat as he swallowed, hoping it would ease the pounding against his forehead. He pointed at the notepad. "These are great."

The guy smiled at the compliment, then turned back to his drawing.

The professor talked for another three minutes before he reached the end of his speech and walked to his bag, and that was Marti's chance.

"That's my cue," he said to himself. He lingered for a few more seconds, suddenly unsure, then finally got up.

"Hey." A quiet voice made him stop. 

The guy held out a small piece of paper, waiting for him to take it, then turned around to look at the professor who was about to start the presentation. Marti stood there, puzzled, but quickly realized he was drawing attention from the other students, so he turned around and left. 

With the coffee in one hand and the note in the other, he paused to think after the door shut behind him. The building was vaguely familiar, but he still had no idea how he ended up here. His lecture was in the building next to this one, and he was already late. 

Also, he embarrassed himself in front of a cute guy. All of this was definitely Elia's fault. 

He hurried through the glass entrance before opening the note. It was folded in the middle, with uneven edges like it was torn out of the notepad. The white paper revealed dark angular shapes, and he had to turn it upside down to realize it was a groundplan of the building he was in. A messy layout showed the auditorium with a tiny X in the center, and a dashed line connected it to the only break in the outline, probably the entrance. 

At the bottom of the page a sentence was written in small artful letters.

_If you ever need to find your way back to the most boring art history class_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for everyone who accidentally ended up in the wrong lecture because of sleep deprivation. Because that totally didn't happen to me. Ever.
> 
> talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/183146246020/find-your-way-back-chapter-1-skam-italy)


	2. sweet coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One surprise after another.

Martino didn’t think about the guy. 

He didn’t think about the note that was now tucked in the desk drawer under some notebooks, or why the stranger would give him such a drawing, or what it implied. (Because it didn’t imply anything.)

He didn’t think about it at all, didn’t wonder if there was a hidden meaning, a double layer. Or if it was just a silly thing, made with no intentions, just to pass the time. 

His brain filed it as an amusing incident. Nothing more. 

Certainly nothing embarrassing, he reminded himself, and he was serious about it. In that moment he had let his insecurity take over, over-thinking every move, make it seem awkward and make all the things happening around him into a huge deal - and the logical part of his brain knew it wasn’t reality. He’s learned that about himself, so he gave himself a reality check. 

No over-thinking. Not anymore. 

But when he thought back to the surprising meeting, when his thoughts trailed down that road, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

Who else has he never met before? Who else wandered around campus, not aware of Marti’s existence? If getting lost and ending up in the wrong lecture hall revealed so many new people, what else was there to explore? It was like his horizon suddenly got blurry at the borders, as if there was so much so close to Marti, but he had never searched for it. 

At least it was how he imagined it. When talking to Elia about it he should have used a different phrase, because all he got was a confused look. 

“Meeting new people, expanding our horizons?” Elia gesticulated while asking, curling his fingers slowly, like there was some kind of magic coming out of them. “Are you trying to convince me to join some cult?” 

Marti dropped the topic. He didn’t want to explain where the idea came from, so he focused on whatever story Elia was about to tell him about the weekend Marti didn’t join his friends at the pub. 

A week passed before he brought it up to Gio. Their latest text messages were still open, staring at Marti, daring him. 

> **Giovanni**  
>  _I’m totally on your side. Don’t listen to Elia. He just wants to fulfill his plan of sleeping through all of his university life._
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _A plan that's working, by the way_
> 
> **Giovanni**  
>  _He’s resting and getting ready for the vacation here, bro!  
>  for all the new bars I’m gonna show you._
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _After the end of this semester I’m gonna need it...  
>  but thanks _
> 
> **Giovanni**  
>  _Don’t meet too many friends though ;)_
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _I think there’s just still more things to do, I feel like I’m not living life to the fullest, I don't know how to explain it_
> 
> **Giovanni**  
>  _“living life to the fullest”??  
>  Are you having a mid-life-crisis? You know you’re not supposed to get them before 30_
> 
> **Martino**  
>  _No_  
>  _Maybe_  
>  _I don't know_
> 
> **Giovanni**  
>  _I think you just need a new boyfriend_

Marti groaned at the message and put his phone back into his pocket, not bothering to reply. 

Gio in love was difficult, but Gio in a loving long-term relationship, that was insufferable. 

Always preaching how love was the answer to all. That Marti should give it a chance again. 

He slipped on his sneakers and took the trash bags from the kitchen floor, where they have been waiting the whole day to be picked up and thrown out, and walking through the door he wondered if he could just throw out his thoughts too. Leave them outside and blindly fall back into place, into a routine he’s established during the last months, where everything was predictable and safe and just how Marti knew it. 

He had both hands full, holding stinking trash bags and trying not to let them bump against the stairs he was walking down, when he met the guy for the second time. 

Marti recognized him immediately. The hallway which led to more apartments at this side of his building was well lit, but the guy didn’t look in his direction, he was too busy carrying two boxes on top of each other - so large they bumped into his chin - and trying to push down the door handle with his elbow. 

Marti stood there, unsure of what to do, only a few meters between them, and the box on top kept sliding off every time the guy leaned into the door, making him wiggle his whole body to regain balance. It was kind of endearing. 

“Do you need help with that?” Marti asked, voice steadier than he expected. 

His head snapped up and he looked at Marti, seconds stretching out into an endless wait. 

And then recognition reached his eyes, he quickly rebound from his surprise and a smile lit up his face. 

“It’s you!” the guy stated and stopped his efforts with the door to put the boxes down, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Yeah,” Marti said weakly, because he didn’t know how to reply to that. _Don’t make it awkward, don’t make it awkward_ played on a loop in his head. “I didn’t know you lived here,” Marti said, he was sure he’s seen everyone who lived in the building. 

“I’m moving in.” He stepped closer, almost reaching the stairs where Marti was still in the same spot. 

Marti didn’t say anything, the confusion in his brain slowly travelling into his stomach, turning into excitement. 

“Are you sure this is actually _your_ building?” the guy teased with a smile, creating soft wrinkles around his eyes. Marti smiled back, remembering last week. 

“Niccolò,” he introduced himself and looked like he wanted to shake his hand, but pulled back when he saw what Marti was holding. “Nice to meet you,” he added and it was too sincere for the situation they were in, it seemed almost comical, but the guy didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m Martino.” 

The silence stretched out as Niccolò stood in front of him, bouncing on his heels, and Marti was still standing there holding the trash, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Let me just take this out,” he lifted his hands up, “and I’ll help you.” 

“Sure.” 

Marti sharply turned away and moved down the hallway in the other direction, trying not to walk too quickly, gathering his thoughts. The door to the backyard opened with a creak and he stepped into the heat. It was one of the hottest afternoons this summer, definitely not the best day to move around heavy boxes, but he only spent a short moment thinking about the weather, his thoughts still fixed on the stranger waiting in the hallway. 

A stranger who now had a name and wasn’t actually a stranger anymore. 

The guy was moving into Martino’s building. By the time Martino reached the trash barrels an endless line of possibilities was already running through his mind. 

The way back was way too short; he tried to think of something to say, and his brain came up with absolutely nothing. 

Just when he reached his previous spot and saw Niccolò leaning against the wall, waiting for him, another person’s soft steps appeared, making their way down the stairs. 

Marti’s seen her countless times before, but today she was particularly clumsy, and the wide smile that spread on her face when she saw him froze immediately when she missed the last step - panic on her face - and stumbled forward. She managed to grab the handrail for support, but had to sacrifice the letters in her hands that landed on the floor in front of Marti’s feet. 

He quickly kneeled down next to her and helped collect them. 

“Thanks, Martino,” she mumbled shyly, clearly embarrassed. She took the letters and clutched them tightly to her chest, and without giving him a chance to answer she rushed to the door with her head bowed down. 

Marti got back up. He knew she lived a floor above him and her last name was French, because of that one time he got her letter, thrown into the postbox of flat 31, but addressed to 41, and then he went to ring her doorbell, unaware that it would be the day the looks and the giggles and the greetings would start, making Marti almost roll his eyes in annoyance every time they accidentally met. 

He turned his attention back to Niccolò, who was still leaning on the wall - completely unfazed - and looking at him with a wide grin, like he knew something Marti didn’t. 

A dull sting didn’t let him think about it but brought his eyes to his ring finger, where a fresh cut threatened to bleed. Marti watched the redness collect under the surface of his skin on the side of his finger. 

“Cazzo,” he murmured under his breath, expecting pain, but the cut didn’t touch the nerves at his fingertip, so there was none. 

“Ha!” Niccolò exclaimed and pushed himself from the wall, suddenly energized. 

What did Martino miss? 

“I knew it,” Niccolò said in Italian, a satisfied grin on his face, and Marti was taken aback immediately, mostly by the slightly different tone in voice. 

Martino stared at him, his brain slowly catching up. “You’re Italian?” he asked, more confident now that they’ve switched into the other language. 

“Yes, I’m from Rome.” The more he spoke, the more Marti could recognize his Roman accent. 

He didn’t know what to say to that. _Niccolò_. Marti wanted to slap himself for being so slow. _Of course_. Why hasn’t he recognized the name earlier? 

(Don’t act like it’s the rarest thing in the world, Marti. Don’t act like it _means_ something.) 

“I recognized the accent when we met in the lecture,” Niccolò continued, strangely proud of himself, flashing him a dazzling smile. 

Speaking his native language gave Marti a comfort he didn’t know he needed, it made him relax, and the distance between them disappeared.

“I hate my accent,” he confessed, sighing, taking in the feeling of familiarity that came every time he met someone from his country. 

“No, why?” Niccolò was genuinely confused. 

“Wish I didn’t have one.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, people judge you. Not openly, but they don’t treat you quite the same as they treat locals.” 

Niccolò considered what he said, and then the thoughtful expression turned into a lopsided grin. “I like it.” 

Marti scratched the back of his neck. “Well, you have a British accent, you don’t have to worry about that.” 

“But isn’t it great? You’re speaking a different language, but there’s still a part of you in there. It’s unique.” Niccolò seemed very convinced of his own words, and it made Marti feel a bit better.

He’s never thought about it like that. 

He looked back at the cut on his finger but there wasn’t any blood and he could move it without pain. 

“Let me help you with your stuff,” Marti offered, finally remembering why they were standing here. 

Niccolò nodded, a thankful look on his face, and led them to the boxes by the door. They took one each, and stepped through the door, and Niccolò’s flat was the first one in the hallway. 

“So, how are the neighbours?” he asked, putting down the box to take out his keys, unlock the door and hold it open. 

“They’re okay, I guess. I don’t talk to them much, to be honest.” The most contact he had with them were brief conversations and small talk while they were smoking in the backyard or on the rooftop. He walked through the doorway into the large room. 

“Oh...and the girl?” Niccolò wondered while he pushed the box inside, not bothering to pick it up again, and closed the door. He indicated that Marti could put the one he was holding on top of the other, so he did.

Marti shrugged and moved back to a shy distance. “Nothing.” 

They were standing in the kitchen by the entrance, and he didn’t even need to look around to know the design of the room, it was the same apartment as his. 

Niccolò’s hair was messier than the last time he saw him, like it had somehow been involved in the effort of moving things around. Strands of dark hair were sticking out, like he’s been pushing a hand through it, and the urge to brush them down made Marti's fingers itch. 

There was a knowing look on Niccolò’s face again and Marti didn’t like it.

“You don’t even know me,” Marti said jokingly, although he didn’t know if it was supposed to be a joke, because he sounded more defensive than he intended. 

Niccolò narrowed his eyes and leaned forward a bit. “I have to warn you, I can read people from the moment I meet them,” he said mischievously, Marti’s heart beating faster at that statement, “and that girl is clearly into you,” he said in a low voice, as if letting him in on a secret. 

Marti laughed, relieved, relaxing again. “Yeah, no shit!” 

“What?” 

“I know that. I’ve been living here for months.” 

That made Niccolò pause and he shifted his weight. “You know it but you still let her hope for something?” 

“She’s not hoping for anything.” Why were they discussing this? 

“Poor girl,” Niccolò exclaimed, fake pity in his voice. 

“Are you telling me this is my fault? I would have told her no, but she never asked directly.” And why was Marti telling him this? 

Niccolò simply shook his head at the statement. 

Marti looked around the room, a small kitchen on the right turned into a desk and a closet, and a bed was standing against the opposite wall. Like most student accommodations it didn’t have much furniture, only a desk chair, a small couch and a barstool in the kitchen area. Half-open boxes were all around the room, and the only thing that suggested a person already lived here were the new bed sheets. Marti thought back to last night, to coming home late in the evening, climbing up the stairs, and now he knew that Niccolò had already spent the night in his building, a few meters away. 

Niccolò glanced around the room, looking a little uncomfortable. “Not much here, and I have to put away my stuff.” 

There was clutter all around the room, mostly brushes, drawing boards, materials he couldn’t identify and all the things Marti had imagined an art student used. 

He thought back to their first meeting, and seeing all the little pieces of Niccolò he tried to fit it into the shy guy sitting next to him that Monday morning. (Maybe he wasn’t shy. Maybe he just wasn’t interested in talking to you, Martino.) 

A drawing caught his eye. It was leaning on the windowsill against the glass, blocking some of the sunlight. It was a mix of colours, most of them dark strokes on a white background. 

“What does this represent?” he asked, with a challenging tone in his voice. 

“What do you think?” the other replied, mimicking his tone. 

“The darkness of the soul?” he joked, and Niccolò’s raised eyebrows made him regret it immediately. 

A pause. “Actually,” he said, stepping closer and leaning an arm on Marti’s shoulder, pointing at the painting with the other, “this is supposed to be a person, you see how he’s kneeling? Like he’s begging for forgiveness. And his eyes. They’re wide with fear, maybe even madness. And this,” he said, pointing at the bottom of the drawing and leaning in more, “those are all the words, from his mind, falling out of his mouth on the floor into a puddle.” 

Marti saw none of those things, but he felt him, too close. 

“You’re so pretentious.” He didn’t know how he was so confident to joke like this the second time he met the guy, but somehow he wanted to fight back against this sudden physical closeness. 

Niccolò laughed near his ear - making Marti’s stomach lurch - then stepped back. “Many people see themselves in such paintings.” 

Marti wondered if he could see it if he tried hard enough, or if his mind just wasn’t open for something like this. 

A few beats of silence passed and then Marti turned to look at him. “Are you serious?” 

Niccolò shook his head, laughing. “I was just trying out some oil colours.” Then he laughed again, harder this time and Marti let out a relieved sigh. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he thought. 

Niccolò gently pushed into his upper arm until Marti realized he wanted him to sit down on the couch. 

“Coffee?” he asked while Marti leaned into the backrest. 

“Isn’t it my turn?” Marti countered, remembering their first meeting, and now Niccolò was offering coffee again, because he was being friendly, just being friendly to the new neighbour, as people usually are.

“Next time,” Niccolò said in an easy tone. 

He walked back to the kitchen and dug through some of the small boxes on the counter. 

_Next time_ , Martino thought. 

“Why did you decide to study art?” he asked curiously, watching him move around the kitchen area. 

And Niccolò told him. 

He told him everything from his disapproving parents, his mediocre performance in school, some relatives who were working in London and willing to let him stay in an apartment they usually rented out, to an epiphany he once had, that made him decide not to waste his life by passing up on opportunities he came across. 

Marti watched him explain, watched the emotions flash across his face, and he wished he could be so open. In his mind an idea of Niccolò was forming quickly, every new information shifting the picture into a bigger painting, until it became a life-size portrait, projected onto the person in front of him. 

“And,” Niccolò concluded, now sitting opposite him on the barstool, “I knew if I didn’t take a chance this one time, I would regret it.” He looked at Marti, suddenly serious, then he looked away. “They let me stay for over a year, and now, the apartment is up for rent again, and I had to search for my own place.” 

Marti teared his eyes away and looked around while listening, and for a moment he tried to imagine it. 

He imagined how Niccolò woke up in the morning and made his first coffee, similar to the way he stood there earlier, eyes probably half closed. How he walked around the room, how he worked on his projects, studying and drawing and struggling. How he came home in the afternoon after a day at the university, or how he came home late, maybe a little tipsy from a night-out with friends.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, the buzz of a text message, but there was no way he would be the one to burst this bubble. 

He thought about the ten minutes he had spent with the guy in his lecture - how much he’s thought about it - and now it was a ridiculous idea to think he had a complete image of Niccolò, considering they were sitting in a lecture with at least one hundred other students, not even exchanging more than a few sentences; but today he wanted to extend this meeting for as long as possible, because he wanted to ask Niccolò a hundred questions. 

So he melted into the cushion even more, hand around a mug that warmed his fingers and heart, and let out a slow breath into the comfort of the moment, thinking about how Niccolò puts way too much sugar in his own coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute, but real life has been in the way, and season 3 has been on my mind, so y'know :)
> 
> talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/183873565505/find-your-way-back-chapter-2-skam-italy)


	3. mixed signals

The vibrating pillow woke him up. 

Martino, lying on his stomach, pushed a hand under it to fish out his phone.

 _10:56_  
_1 new message_

The room was bright; morning sunshine found its way through the thin curtains, and he felt the bedspread bunched at his feet where he kicked it off during the night. The phone unlocked with his fingerprint and a message from his mother popped up: a photo of a pie, the crust a pale shade of yellow, sitting on the coffee table he recognized.

> _waiting ❤_

He smiled at the caption. Tomorrow he'd be there, stepping back into the old part of his life. Or, more like dipping his toe into well-known waters, before he pulled it back when his visit ended and returned here. He'd spend summer holidays listening to his mother's stories about what he missed, enjoying long nights with his friends, and _finally_ eating real Italian food, not the pathetic attempts he found here.

Tomorrow.

Shit.

He dropped his face back into the pillow, groaning, as he remembered his plan for today. It was always like this. Intending to do a million things until it was time to actually go through with it. But he promised himself he'd buy a present for his mother, a nice surprise that would hopefully make her happy. 

A mental countdown to ten while he prepared himself to get up, his hand running through his hair a few times instead of a hairbrush, and he was out of bed, and almost tripped over his empty suitcase on the floor on his way to the bathroom.

The fridge was completely empty, and he allowed himself a short moment of pride for being responsible and not leaving anything in it so it would go to waste. But it meant he didn't have any food here.

He was supposed to meet Elia to go out for lunch, then he'd go shopping, but knowing Elia's sleep schedule lunch was still hours away, and his stomach was growling. The small store down the street was his safest bet.

In passing, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, dull eyes and a drowsy expression on his face; he wished he could pull a hood over his hair and face, hide it from the outside world, but it was too warm for anything other than a t-shirt.

*

"Martino?"

The sudden voice forced him to look up, almost falling backwards where he was crouching outside the store entrance and collecting the change that had just slipped through his fingers, but he quickly recovered and found his balance.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.” Niccolò beamed at him, hands in pockets, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

"Hi." Martino stood up. He hasn't seen him since their unexpected hangout a few days ago.

All at once, the possibility of meeting him not only in their building but everywhere in the neighbourhood found its way into the back of his mind and settled there, like a red alert button, always ready to go off.

"Food shopping?"

"Yeah, I don't have much at home."

Niccolò took a peak at his purchase: milk, bread, a jar of peanut butter and a soft drink bottle were shining through the almost transparent grocery bag.

"A true chef, I see," he teased and made Marti laugh. 

He would have felt awkward at the situation, if he didn't have the new-found knowledge that the seemingly unapproachable student wasn't intimidating at all, just a chatty art enthusiast who's trying to follow his passion.

A pause.

Niccolò looked over his shoulder into the distance and swayed from one foot to the other. "Want to grab breakfast?" 

Marti followed his gaze when Niccolò lifted his chin towards the street corner, to a coffee shop he went by nearly every day, but never set foot in.

This was the moment when he should turn around and go, Marti realized. "Sorry, I have other plans, but it was nice seeing you," he should say. Casually. Like he always did. No problem.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, not moving an inch. Lingering.

After a beat Marti nodded and they crossed the street, a hesitant distance between them. 

The coffee shop was crowded with people, low chatter filled the room. Marti chose a piece of pastry he didn't know, absentmindedly tapped his foot at the cashier taking absurdly long at the cash register, and found raised eyebrows peeking out above Niccolò's glasses and a small smile directed at him.

"Why don't you go find a seat outside while I..."

Martino felt caught in something he shouldn't be doing, but although Niccolò was smiling while suggesting it, he seemed a bit nervous, almost out of his element. 

_Don't project_ , he thought.

Marti took up the offer and weaved through the rows of seats and out the door that led to the terrace.

Outside, most of the tables were empty, and left him wondering why people wanted to stay inside on such a beautiful day. He plopped down in a chair and squinted against the sun. That was why. The summer heat hasn't reached its full potential yet, but in an hour or two it would be too intense to sit here.

Niccolò joined him after a minute, the frame of his sunglasses catching the golden sun, and he held a coffee cup out towards Marti.

"You can't keep giving—" Marti started.

Niccolò interrupted by firmly setting the cup in front of him. "Don't worry about it," he said and took a seat, his own coffee in the other hand, and turned his face towards the sun.

But Marti worried about everything. Because he knew. He knew what would happen.

Another smile and careful gesture from Niccolò, Marti knew he'd be gone. Irreversibly headed down the road of impossible fantasies. And eventually, he'd find himself in well-known pain.

He had to stop it before it was too late.

It wasn't like anything had _happened._ They just hung out at Niccolò's. For a few hours.

He remembered sitting there, taking everything in, trying to figure out the boy in front of him.

And he had _tried_.

He had accustomed himself to it, adjusted his filters, broke down their conversations, repeated their words later that night, until he had shamefully admitted to himself that he was obsessing over it.

Something still didn't click, like a puzzle piece was missing, unattainable, not to be found.

There was no clear line, no obvious indication if a curious glance was something he was supposed to notice, or just friendly politeness, a habit everyone picked up after moving here. At some point he was so focused on it, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.

"How's life surrounded by color palettes? Or whatever those things are called," Marti tried.

"I'm all done for this semester." Niccolò pushed the glasses on his head, revealing faint shadows under his eyes. "You?"

"Me too."

"I'm _so_ glad. I wouldn't have survived another day." Niccolò sighed, defeated. He sounded sincere.

"I thought you loved art?" Marti asked, only half-serious.

"I do, but..." He raised one shoulder like he was indecisive about the answer. "It's still a lot of work. And sometimes the pressure makes you hate it a little," he added as an afterthought.

Marti didn't want to let the mood drop, he didn't say yes to this to bring Niccolò down. 

"You didn't want anything?" Marti pointed to his food, changing the subject.

"I think there's so much sugar in this, it could replace a meal," he said, shaking his head, a smile back on his face.

Marti laughed. At least he was self aware. "That's exactly why you should eat something else."

"Big words coming from Mister peanut-butter-and-toast!" They both laughed. "I already had breakfast this morning," Niccolò said and let his sunglasses fall back on his nose, relaxing in his chair.

Marti's heart made a funny little leap, and he lowered his gaze, focusing on the stain at the edge of the table. He tried to come up with something to say.

Niccolò was sitting here just to keep him company while Marti ate his breakfast, and the birds were chirping, and the occasional low hum of passing cars blended into the background, and Marti had to do something.

He had to ask him something, anything, because he was leaving for Italy tomorrow, and he'd be there for the entire month. He'd be there and settle into a routine of lazy time-wasting and visiting relatives, who would ask what England was like, and he would answer as always, _lots of people, and stressful exams_ and there was this one cute guy, who's sitting right in front of him.

_Ask him what he's doing today._

The question was already on his lips, waiting to fall out, but silence stretched out indefinitely between them, eating up his courage by the minute, and Marti wondered when he became such a coward. 

A phone came alive with a quiet melody, drawing their attention.

Niccolò sat up, surprised. "Shit, I completely forgot. Sorry, this is my mum and I promised her to facetime. She's probably on her break now," he started rambling, hastily collected his things, and gave Marti an apologetic look. "Sorry," he repeated.

Marti, torn out of his own thoughts by the sudden interruption, stuttered _"no problem"_ and a goodbye, and watched him take the call and go.

He took a deep breath, eyes still on the spot where Niccolò vanished around the corner.

Maybe that was the problem, he was looking for roots where there were only risks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this thing is back from the dead after a million years (please don't kill me), now hopefully regularly.
> 
> thank you for reading! share your thoughts in a comment or talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/185768638255/find-your-way-back-chapter-3-giuliamed-skam)


	4. tense

Over the years, Martino has seen Giovanni at all stages of drunkenness. 

He's seen Gio sober, leading him and their friends into a new club, all of them pretending to be of legal age. Tipsy, while he was pulling Luchino back from a balcony rail he was dangerously leaning over, then scolding him with a speech Lucino probably didn't even remember the next day. Completely drunk on countless shots, fast food and the electric atmosphere of their last night out before they started university, arms tight around Marti and whining into his shoulder that he couldn't leave, while Marti chuckled and tried to fit his house key into the hole. 

And yet—watching him bounce around by the front door of the bar, every step a little too much energy to it, the excitement threatening to explode from the inside— _right before_ he got drunk was his favorite.

Marti was already pushing the door open with his shoulder, waiting for Gio to follow, but Gio decided to pull out another cigarette and grin at him like an idiot, the cigarette loosely hanging between his lips. 

Rome's hot and humid night air made Marti's t-shirt cling to his skin, drops of sweat curling the ends of his hair where it touched his neck, and he glanced through the glass door at their empty seats inside, thankfully close to the air conditioning. Still, he couldn't be mad at the silly expression on Gio's face and just rolled his eyes before smiling back. 

"Just one more," Gio said.

It was the same as every night this week: no rush. They weren't in a hurry because they had nowhere to be, just strolling through the city, deciding to do whatever came to their minds. The week had turned into a four-person task of outdoing one another with stupid ideas, but tonight, it was only the two of them.

The boom of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance, and a person emerged from the darkness behind Giovanni. The dim light from inside illuminated the sharp contours of his face.

"Got a light?" he asked, eyes on Giovanni, offering a polite smile.

And like every time so far, Niccolò appeared out of nowhere, as if a cosmic entity hauled him through time and space and dropped him off in front of Martino.

Gio handed over the lighter after using it himself, then took it back with a nod.

"Thanks."

Marti finally pulled back from the door, let it snap in, and the clicking noise cut off the voices from inside, leaving them with quiet and all eyes on him. 

"Martino?" Niccolò asked after a beat and narrowed his eyes, voice doubtful.

"Hey." Marti smiled apologetically, as if it was his fault they kept running into each other.

Apparently, that's how it was now.

In a matter of seconds, Niccolò's expression changed into the familiar cheerful look. "You're everywhere, huh?" 

"Seems like it," Marti responded and found himself mirroring his smile. _Their little inside joke._

Gio cleared his throat, forcing Marti to tear his eyes away and wave a vague hand to introduce him. "This is my best friend Giovanni."

"Nice to meet you." They shook hands.

"I'm Niccolò," he said, tone easy, not budging under Giovanni's curious eyes.

The moment stretched, neither of them moving, and Gio gave Marti a questioning look, as if he wanted to check if this was a friend and not an unwanted guest. Marti reassured him with a small nod.

"I'm sorry, I don't want to interrupt. You probably don't see each other often." Niccolò took a step back.

Gio waved dismissively. "It's fine, we've been together the whole week."

Niccolò carefully looked at Marti, body unsure where to go.

Martino wondered about the probability of them meeting right here, smiled and opened the door once more, inviting them in with a hand gesture.

He followed them as they found their way through groups of chattering people around small tables until they arrived at theirs, where the air conditioning cooled down the mix of heavy summer air and the smell of alcohol.

Gio nonchalantly stole a chair from an empty table, placed it between their chairs, and offered: "Niccolò?"

Niccolò sat down with a thankful nod. "My friends call me Nico."

"Do your friends also know the best bars in Rome, _Nico?_ " Gio said with a laugh and gestured around them.

"Actually, I was just on my way home from the one down the street..." Nico joined in and enthusiastically described a place Marti didn't know about, but Gio seemed genuinely interested in.

Marti sighed to himself, already zoning out. With Giovanni it was always like this. He met people, and five minutes later they were friends. Marti had yet to meet someone who didn't like his easy-going spirit, the way he effortlessly included everybody and immediately found common ground.

Niccolò followed Gio's words closely, nodding in agreement, and energetic, like he's already been drinking. Which he has, considering what he told Gio about the bar.

"How do you know Martino?" 

Gio's question pulled him from his thoughts, and he quickly chimed in. "Uni."

Nico turned to him. "Oh, haven't you told him the wonderful story?" 

That wasn't the word Marti would have used. 

Niccolò raised his eyebrows, like a child spotting an opportunity to cause trouble, and it was difficult not to find it charming. 

"What story?" Gio threw in.

It was all Nico needed, a mischievous smile formed around his lips, and Marti didn't doubt for a second the anecdote would be amplified by extremely exaggerated details. 

Marti stared at the table, he didn't need to look to know Gio's gaze was on him; after a moment of intense silence he decided he didn't need to hear it again.

"I'll get beer," he announced without looking up, inspecting his empty glass and Gio's full one.

Nico's loud and careless laugh followed him to the bar counter.

He slumped against the bar, elbows settling on the dark wood. He felt like he had to catch his breath. 

The whole thing caught him off guard. What seemed like a casual evening before, became some kind of test now, one he wasn't prepared for. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what was making him so nervous, and he let a minute pass before he took a deep breath and ordered.

Giovanni was in full story mode when he came back, commenting on whatever Nico had told him, but Marti ignored him and placed one of the two glasses in front of Nico, getting a warm smile in return. 

_I owed you_ he mouthed over Gio's words, and Nico's lips curled even more, before he returned his gaze to Gio.

Marti dropped into his chair and met Gio's glance across the table; he immediately knew Giovanni suspected something. It was like he could see the question mark floating above his head. The disconnect wouldn't last very long; nothing could escape his best friend's attentive eyes.

"That's the Marti I know," Gio continued, and shared a conspiratorial look with Nico, before he wandered to another topic. Apparently it only took a couple of minutes for them to team up against him.

After a few minutes, Niccolò excused himself from the table and walked off towards the restroom, and Gio's eyes were boring into Martino as soon as he was out of sight.

He was sure Giovanni was dying to comment. Marti raised an eyebrow.

"You look tense," Gio simply stated, leaning forward.

Marti looked away, focusing on the bored couple sitting next to them. It was past midnight, and those two looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Don't play dumb." Gio laughed.

"I'm not doing anything," he claimed, and bit down on his tongue. A small voice from the back of his mind—his conscience—yelled at him for shutting Gio out, but something in him didn't want to discuss Niccolò with anyone.

"If you want to play this low-key, you should stop staring."

Marti’s head snapped up so fast he thought he sprained his neck. A time lapse of the last minutes played before his eyes, made him second-guess every moment. Gio watched him—endlessly patient—and waited for Marti to process, while a horribly familiar feeling was making its way through his bones.

 _Was he that obvious?_

Marti didn't know what to say to him. He didn't want to deny it, there was no point anyway, but he was already dreading Gio's excessive _encouragement-talk_ , as Marti called it. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked carefully.

Gio opened his palms, like it was obvious. "You always need a little push." 

Martino stared at him blankly. 

"You met him three weeks ago, and you didn't even tell me." There was no accusation in his tone; he said it as though it was a piece of evidence supporting his statement. 

"There is nothing to tell." He had to admit, the excuse sounded incredibly weak as soon as the words came out.

"Mhm." A knowing grin formed on Gio's face, and made Marti cross his arms in front of his chest. 

He was really pushing Marti's buttons today.

"Stop."

" _I'm not doing anything,_ " Gio repeated, mocking him.

Marti rolled his eyes and leaned forward. "Okay, maybe I wanted to avoid _this_." He knew Gio would talk to him as long as it took to convince Martino to do something. 

And the worst part was, deep inside Marti knew he needed exactly that.

There was a long pause after he spoke, and he was almost sure Gio has dropped the topic, but then he continued, voice softer now. "All I'm saying is, you should go for it."

Marti made a non-committal sound.

Gio's sincere eyes were making it difficult not to listen to him; in that moment he wanted nothing more than to abandon all doubts and simply believe him. "Seriously. He's seems nice." 

_He doesn't seem like someone who will treat you like shit_ was what Giovanni wanted to say.

Someone who flirted with you at a party, when you were young and inexperienced and new to London. Someone, who played you like a fool. Someone, who ended the relationship as abruptly as it started when you started to get too attached.

Marti took a deep breath, surrendering. "I don't know if he likes me," he said, trying very hard not to sound whiny.

"There's only one way to find out." Gio gave him a pointed look, then gulped down half his drink, ending their discussion.

The thought carried terrifying implications and made his head spin; it was exactly what Marti has been avoiding this whole time. But Gio's encouragement has made him feel better, and his words continued to whirl around in his mind.

He heard Nico return before he saw him, already babbling about some weird encounter he had on the way, but Marti was only listening with half an ear; he was more interested in Nico sitting down and resting his arm on the back of Marti's chair for support, but then it stayed there, like a temptation, and Nico stretched out his legs under the table to shift into a relaxed sitting position.

Martino swallowed. After a few heartbeats that he felt in his throat, he leaned back, as casually as he could, aware of the new warmth tingling his back, and of Gio's sharp eyes darting to him for a moment.

He had to fight a laugh threatening to escape him. Gio got what he wanted.

Marti watched them continue their excited talk and after a while, he allowed himself to throw in witty comments here and there. 

With every passing minute, something in him eased off; alcohol loosened his muscles; it felt like unwinding after a stressful day.

He watched his best friend, his animated gestures when he talked, the way Marti hasn't seen in moths, but just how he remembered it. He missed him, missed all the things he couldn't see in person, missed the carefree time they had together when they were younger. The promises they made. That they would stay in contact, no matter where they ended up, they wouldn't let the physical distance put a distance between them. 

And they made it work. Marti was proud of it, proud of them growing up, knowing that it took effort to keep the friendship alive. 

His eyes wandered to Nico. His hair—by now he should be used to the messy curls—that somehow still looked carefully arranged even though it seemed to have a mind of its own. His dark shirt, his arms—one still on Marti's chair—gestures matching Gio's now, reaching over the table to grab Gio's forearm when he couldn't believe his words, leaning into Marti when asking him a question. 

And for a moment he indulged. He watched the two interact, allowed himself to imagine it, how easy it would be to merge his past and his present.

Nico was fully relaxed and cheerful, sipping on his drink; it was a version of him Marti hasn't seen before. No exams, no responsibilities. He was blending into the scene as if it was the most natural thing. It was so easy; it fit without resistance. 

Then, Gio looked up from his phone he was fumbling with for the last three minutes, and announced: "Sorry guys, I think I have to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> tell me what you think in a comment or talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/186124145830/find-your-way-back-chapter-4-giuliamed-skam)


	5. shelter

Marti felt almost tipsy on the way out of the bar, then Nico opened the door for him and invited him to walk first with an arm gesture, a curtsy and a ridiculous smile, that nearly pushed him over the edge to drunkenness.

His head was swimming.

The air in the night didn’t let them breathe. As they strolled along the sidewalk through the darkness, the cells of his skin soaked up the moisture from the heavy summer air, making it smooth to the touch and sticky to his clothes.

He felt good.

“Gio is fun,” Nico commented, putting his hands in his pockets, without haste in his steps. “Pity he had to leave.”

The words twirled their way into his head, and whatever amusing thing they were talking about a second ago was quickly overshadowed by the fresh memory of Giovanni’s exit. Suddenly half-panicked looks from Marti, Gio decidedly raising an eyebrow, like a challenge. _“Sorry, it’s urgent.”_ Gio emptied his glass at one gulp, and then, like the worst best friend in existence that he was, had the audacity to wink at Mart while saying goodbye. Marti didn't know if Nico saw, he just felt his cheeks burn and said nothing, looking away.

“Yeah, pity.” The underlying sarcasm in Marti’s voice unintentionally turned into something more bitter. 

Nico seemed to pick up on Marti’s dip in spirits, and furrowed his eyebrows, looking down the dark road in front of them. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt your night-out, I’m sorry.”

Another clap of thunder rolled through the street, and Marti sharply turned his head. “No, it’s all right, don’t apologize,” he replied hasty. There was nothing to be sorry for, and that was definitely not what he worried about.

Then what was he worried about?

Of course Nico and Gio got along, now that he witnessed it with his own eyes it was abundantly clear why. They both loved to chase down the silliest ideas, had enough imagination to describe the detailed life of every single person in the bar around them, and invent a new genre of music while they're at it.

(Okay, maybe it was a bit endearing.)

Nico didn’t look completely convinced, and that wasn’t Marti’s intention at all. He wanted to lighten the mood again, when it was all going so well until now. “We weren't joking when we said we spent the whole week together.” 

He’s been feeling good, great even, every day since he walked out of the airport and into the familiar city. Every night he spent with the guys. And tonight, too. Maybe in a different way. Something in him wanted to chase the feeling, he focused on talking about Gio instead.

“He dragged me along into every coffe shop and bar he discovered. He has a _ranking_ now—” Marti lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows to show he disapproved of the word, of the overly detailed plan, "—and he even convinced us to spend a day at a lake we used to go to, where we spent our summers. It's been a little overwhelming. But also nice."

Nico watched him with lips curling up more and more. “It’s great to have someone like that.” He sounded genuine.

“How did you spend your visit here?”

Nico hesitated for a second, then laughed. “Basically just hung out with old friends. Went to a few places I used to hang out at back in the days. And I visited my grandma." His face softened at the memory. "My parents aren’t home yet, they're lying on the beach on some island. I’m not sure where exactly. They’re returning tomorrow.”

Something appeared in Nico’s voice that didn’t quite match his words, almost cautious.

Marti felt like he had to follow up on it, scratch off the surface. “You don’t sound that excited.”

“I don’t know.” Nico let out a short laugh again. “I got my results and everything is fine, my grades are still up. So no complaints there, I guess.” In passing, he kicked away a can on the ground, and the echo on the cobblestone carried the clatter down the street.

People were still wandering around, but it was much quieter than inside the bar, a contrast to the steady chatter that had surrounded them.

“They loved my passion when I was a kid. It meant I could enjoy myself on my own, and wouldn’t constantly demand their attention. When it came to career-choices, the whole thing got tricky.” Nico was so sure of the words, almost distant, which made them sound even more hopeless.

Half of him was walking in the general direction of his house, the other half mindlessly following Nico’s course. He couldn’t shake the wave of understanding that washed over him, and unlocked his own memories. Not because his parents didn’t approve of his career choice—the arts were not his thing anyway—it was rather at the idea of having to go against your parents’ advice, however genuine it might be, and choose a life different from what they imagined. Shattering their dreams in the process, the dreams he didn't have control over anyway.

The humidity around them pressed down on him, made him feel full in a way that he needed to share something, and he voiced the thought as soon as it crossed his mind.

Nico listened carefully, warm eyes not leaving him while Marti repeated the words out loud. The sudden intensity made Marti feel trapped.

They tumbled out of his mouth on autopilot, words about everything that went through his head a moment ago, and then some more. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, he wasn’t hearing his own voice, he kept going, disconnected from his brain and control over his mouth, like he was captured, and then Nico answered something that he didn’t hear either, never breaking eye contact, and Marti felt like he was falling.

All experiences Marti’s had with guys—not that there were more than he could count on one hand—went like this. Falling into a hole of excitement, without looking down first.

Never planned, gradual. Never slow. He didn’t know how.

He’s been feeling so good this past week, and after all the stress and working through the night for projects and finally taking a break, he thought he deserved it. Deserved to feel good.

Marti slowed down his steps until they came to a halt, swallowed and turned away, only to look back a breath later. Back into curious eyes.

There was some kind of odd electricity around them. He didn’t know how to gently manoeuver their conversation where he wanted it to go, and at this point he didn’t care much. 

”It’s kinda weird running into each other all the time. Can I—” He hovered on the edge of the sentence. “Do you have Instagram, or something?” It wasn't what he has planned to say, but it was close enough.

“Yeah, of course,” Nico said instantly and Marti hoped he didn’t imagine how breathless he sounded. He took a step closer and turned to him.

They pulled out their phones and a minute later Nico’s profile appeared on his screen, like a dare.

Nico looked down to check the time on his own phone. “It’s already half past one. I have to get home soon.” He scratched his neck, regretful. “I wanted to be home by midnight, with my parents coming tomorrow early in the morning and all. That’s where I was going, when I saw you.”

Marti pressed the blue button on his screen and turned back his attention. “You should’ve said something, earlier.”

He realized he had no idea where Nico lived or if they were walking in the right direction, but a second later it didn’t matter anymore.

Nico bit his lip, still staring at his phone. “If this is what happens when I take a shortcut walking home, then I should do it more often.”

Nico looked up, his smile was wide and brilliant, catching all the light from a streetlamp a few meters ahead. Marti wanted to kiss him then and there.

In the next moment—like the whole week has been building up to it, every boom of thunder a warning, temperature increasing day by day and collecting between the old buildings of Rome—the sky opened up above them.

 _Take it slow_ was the last thought in his mind, and then everything happened fast: a hundred droplets wet their skin and hair, Nico’s fingers closed around Marti’s wrist and he was pulled towards the nearest building, his feet obeying willingly, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the rain from falling into them and followed blindly, only guided by the pull on his arm, until they found shelter by a doorway with a small roof.

"We could've expected that," Nico breathed, too close in the small space, still a smile on his lips.

After a long moment, Marti teared his eyes away.

They stood there and waited for the rain shower to stop, listening to the sharp sounds of their quickened breathing and Marti knew he had to think of a way to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible, before everything started to pour out of him, and before he did something exciting and really stupid and discarded his plan to take things slow.

  


*

  
He opened the front door as silently as possible, but as soon as he pulled off his shoes and walked into the living room, his phone made a loud noise, clearly audible in the whole apartment, automatically connecting to the WiFi and coming to life in his pocket.

He pulled it out and opened the message.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother sleeping on the couch.

> **Giovanni**  
>  _Are you at home?  
>  don't answer this if you're not ;)_

Marti typed a response, because not even Gio’s irritating comments were enough to clear Marti’s face from the dumb grin that’s been there for minutes now. He didn’t even mind people looking at him weirdly on his way home when he probably looked like a drunk dumbass.

> **Martino**  
>  _fuck off_

The bundle of thin blankets started to move, drawing his attention. The tv was on but muted, and there were two cups on the coffee table, one tea bag in each, but no water. Marti wrinkled his nose. One cup was a relaxed night. Two cups were a plan.

She turned her head to him, opening slow eyes. "What—?" Her voice was almost inaudible, and soft from sleep.

"You fell asleep, Ma." He looked at her tired face and helped her sit up.

“Oh.” Her gaze fell on the darkness outside the window, then on the flickering tv; she tried to collect herself. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

Marti blinked, needed a moment to process. "It's two in the morning."

"Oh," She repeated, and the hopeless sound squeezed Marti’s heart.

He took a deep breath.

“Let’s go to bed. We’ll watch something tomorrow.”

A few minutes later his phone—carelessly thrown on the cover of his old bed—lit up his dark room again, this time silently.

 _sketchynico_ accepted your follow request.

And then again, after a minute.

 _sketchynico_ started following you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think in a comment or talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/187219064470/find-your-way-back-chapter-5-skam-italy)


	6. pretentious

If he was being honest, he’d say it was typical. He could have sworn he's done plenty of self-reflection in his lifetime, and yet it felt like not enough. The light-bulb in his mind had to shine exceptionally bright for him to notice it.

Marti only realized in hindsight, after the memories tossed and turned in his subconscious, that he kind of had a revelation. It was the sort of revelation that gave him a headache, one that appeared behind his eyeballs, kicking back into his brain.

The problem was—and lately that had become a constant issue in his life—he didn’t really know what to do with this newly acquired knowledge.

 _Taking it slow_ wasn’t as informative as he’d hoped. It didn’t come with a to-do list. It was too much of an abstract concept in his mind. And Marti wasn’t an abstract-concept type of person.

Slow compared to what?

Was he always rushing?

Maybe he’s been thinking about this all wrong. Maybe he couldn’t take things slow, because—and this thought has been at the back of his mind a lot, tirelessly spinning in circles—there was nothing to take slow. 

Living next to Nico was weird. It gave Marti a false sense of excitement, anticipation slowly building in his chest. The constant expectation of meeting him. 

As the days went by, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering in that direction, couldn't help wondering if they saw the same litter on the ground next to their building, how often they chatted with the same cashier.

Walking down the stairs every day, his heart beat faster when he passed his floor, the seconds spent in the shared space felt like an eternity, only to turn into disappointment when he faced the absence. And he always did.

It was like living next to a ghost.

From being overwhelmed every time he saw him to… nothing. Radio silence. Like he was put on withdrawal, left alone to struggle with the symptoms.

At least it gave him time to sort his thoughts, or—more precisely—try. What was the probability of meeting another person from Rome here, anyway? Not that unlikely, he told himself. He met Filippo, although not at university, but Fili was also from Rome, now living in London. 

Absence made the heart grow fonder, they said. Marti knew how it went. Filippo basically gave him a crash course in dating, back when they first met. After Marti's first boyfriend here. When Filippo found him and picked up the pieces.

He thought about Fili's words, spoken long ago and in a different context. _"Don't meet with him all the time. Let him miss you. Don't text the whole day. Let him wonder what you're doing."_ He should have listened back then. _"And don't get too attached. All of them are wonderful in the beginning."_

Maybe Filippo's words were the list he needed. 

Don't get too attached.

That was exactly what he was doing. Not seeing Nico has only made him dream more, create scenarios in his head he knew would never happen in real life. It was all too easy, every missing piece left too much room for fantasy.

Marti knew he had to stop himself. Get a grip. He was falling in love with an idea.

But he just couldn't figure him out. A random drawing, time spent together, then he disappeared for weeks. And there was not a single message in their Instagram direct chat.

On the other hand, he got all types of encouragement. His friends meant well, but they were not helpful.

One time he was hanging out with Elia when he got a facetime call that somehow turned into a discussion about him.

“Is he doing it again?”

“And what’s that, Gio? What am I doing? Tell him I’m not doing anything, Eli.”

“He definitely is.”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You’re doing your _thing_. I can't believe he's doing it again.”

“I know. He’s hopeless.”

“I don't have a thing! What are you talking about?”

“You know, _your thing_."

“Now you're saying this too, Eli? I hate you. How do you even know what he’s talking about?”

“Gio’s always right.”

It turned out, because of some kind of friendship magic they were convinced Marti pushed people away when they got too close. Whatever.

He had attempted not telling Giovanni about anything that happened in Rome after he left—not that anything significant went down—but had to accept his fate quickly and the fact that Gio wouldn’t leave him alone before he got a satisfying answer. 

There wasn’t much to tell. He remembered a moment of disorientation when he decided to go home, confidently walking in the wrong direction before he walked into an alley that was surprisingly unfamiliar. He remembered a short but tight hug and wet hair before that. Standing too close together and waiting for the rain to stop before that.

Marti might have left out these details when Gio appeared on his footsteps the next day and dragged his heavy and hungover body to the park.

And here he was, with friends who were annoying as ever. It seemed like no matter what he did, even if he tried to follow Gio’s advice, he still ended up being made fun of. 

*

With every day that passed his anticipation died down a bit, and he returned to a harsher reality. And when the sun started setting down earlier, when August turned into September, a visit from the boy was the last thing he expected.

Soft knocking on his door forced Marti to roll off the bed and open the door. A familiar face appeared in front of him.

He stood further away than expected, like he took a step back after knocking, arms behind his back, and for a short second there was a look of slight panic on his face. Instantly, Marti considered if he should be worried. But he just stood there, a mess of black hair and flushed cheeks like he’s been running up the stairs—but the apartment was close to the old and squeaky stairs, so usually Marti could hear everyone who was climbing up at a quicker pace.

“Hi.” Nico brought up one hand in a half-wave.

Marti smiled, couldn’t even do anything about it. It was like muscle memory.

“Got a minute?” Nico asked as if he was unsure of his own words, with a soft voice, scared of being too loud in the empty hallway or interrupting something.

But the only thing he interrupted was Marti’s Thursday night activity: binge-watching whatever show required the least brain power. He didn’t even remember which one it was, that’s how little attention he paid. (Or maybe this short-term memory loss was related to other things.)

“Of course. Come in.” He kept his voice light, not letting his surprise and confusion show, and stepped aside. With that, all the adrenaline that’s been locked away rushed through him like it’s been waiting for this moment, honing already created processes.

He closed the door behind them and glanced down at his old sweatpants and t-shirt, mentally cursing himself.

It felt oddly intimate letting him into his room. Although the structure was the same, when Nico let him in that day that seemed like an eternity ago, the room was new, almost unused. Marti has been living here for months, his identity has crept into this space. He remembered Filippo’s comments about it.

Nico looked around to take in everything, careful movements in the unknown area, and nodded. "I see the general theme."

Marti tilted his head to the side, confused.

Nico wiggled his eyebrows and gestured at several posters pinned to the walls, at the rumpled bed cover, at his sweater tossed over a chair. "The color palette."

“I…” He had no idea what to say to that and scratched the back of his neck. Nico was right. His preference for blue couldn't be denied. The majority of his stuff found their way into the corners and stayed there without him noticing, they added up to the mess that was his room. “I guess.”

Marti wondered, vaguely, if there was some kind of new strangeness between them now, something that developed from the sudden distance. Mixed with Nico's ever present casualness it only confused Marti more. Although Nico didn't look carefree at all right now.

Nico hesitated and twisted back around to say something. He still hasn’t told him yet why he was here. He clasped his hands, pushed his fingertips into the skin between his knuckles, a nervous tilt to his voice. “There’s this project I have to do for one of my classes. It’s a class about photography, which I am, let’s say, not really interested in. I thought, maybe, you could help me.” 

For some reason Marti was fascinated with the way Nico kept pushing into the hollow between his bones. After a moment he made himself look up, and said the first thing that came to his mind. “Why did you take a photography class if you don’t like it?”

“They make us do it. It’s mandatory.” He shrugged. “ _‘Expanding our horizons’_ they say.”

Marti nodded sympathetically. He could relate. “Do you know how many ethics courses you have to take when you do business? One every semester.” Marti complained, grimacing.

“See, you get me.” Nico finally smiled, for the first time. “I have to find people who didn’t grow up in London. Find what reminds them of the place where they last lived. I thought our neighborhood was perfect for that. _‘Old and new homes’_ is the task, but that sounds pretentious.”

A laugh bubbled out of Marti at that and he recalled a time when he was the one calling Nico pretentious. He didn't mean it, back then, but it was incredible how far from the truth his words were. “So what’s the plan? Knock on every door in this building?” Marti paused, put his hands on his hips. "Wait. Am I being interviewed right now? Am I the subject?”

“No, no,” Nico put up his hands in defense, laughing. “I want to do it tomorrow, go out and find some people. Unless you’re busy?” he added hesitantly.

It occurred to Marti he hasn't even said yes, but all of his doubts seemed insignificant now, with Nico’s hoping eyes on him. And anyway, what was he supposed to do? Say no? 

“Sounds good.”

Another smile spread across Nico's face. “And we’re definitely not asking anyone here. I’ve already seen some people; I don’t want to deal with all of them.”

Marti clicked his tongue and pouted. “So I’ve made that much of a bad impression that you think _‘One is enough’_.“

Nico rolled his eyes and jokingly shoved his shoulder as he walked to the door, not bothering to answer.

*

  
By the time they talked to the third person around noon, Marti started questioning why Nico asked him to help, when clearly, his charismatic words and warm smile cut through every attempt of rejection, and made people open up with such ease that Marti couldn’t help being slightly amazed. He watched him talk and connect to them, a little in awe.

Under the still warm autumn sun, they wandered the streets close to their building, then they expanded their route, trying to approach everyone who looked mildly interesting, occasionally forgetting the project because Nico’s weird stories about his first weeks here were endless and he wasn't getting tired of telling them. Nico never mentioned what he did in the last few weeks, where he'd been, but Marti didn't care that much anymore. 

And, Nico wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t like photography. Or, as he phrased it, it wasn't his first choice. The way he held the camera with careful and inexperienced fingers; his first attempts at taking pictures when they started asking people made that clear. He fumbled with the buttons on his borrowed DSLR for a long time, lifted a hand to his temple to brush away a strand of hair.

Marti had to remind himself he was supposed to help, not stand around uselessly and stare at Nico’s face. He straightened up. “Can I see?”

He wasn’t too sure what he was doing either, but he had a general idea, and it was better than nothing.

As he was concentrating, in the middle of an attempt to reverse whatever Nico has done to the camera settings, Nico’s astounded voice pulled him out. “You know a lot about this stuff.”

Marti waved a dismissive hand. “A friend is into photography. I just spend many hours watching him do it.”

Nico said nothing, and Marti turned his face and caught Nico’s cryptic smile. Did he say something wrong? Marti blinked, raised an eyebrow.

“You really don't know how to take a compliment, Martino.” 

Marti stayed silent, but he had to bite back a grin as he focused back on the camera. Doing something impressive for once, and hearing the words out of Nico’s mouth, made something tingle and flutter in his stomach.

He didn't remember when he decided to bury it deep inside, this feeling, but Nico was digging it up with everything he did. Relentless. Inescapable.

“So, what’s _your_ story mister Rametta?” Nico demanded in a playful tone and snatched the camera out of his hands.

When Marti looked up, half of Nico’s face disappeared behind the camera, but he giggled at his own words, and a shutter sound pulled Marti out of his stupor. Nico lowered it and brought it close to his face again to inspect the photo.

“Whoops.” Nico looked back up, apologetic eyes watching him through his lashes. “I think I messed up the settings again.”

All of this left Marti without words. He swallowed and simply shook his head, heart turning over in his chest. He took back the camera to check what he did, while Nico walked around.

Again, Marti wondered why Nico didn’t know anyone else who could help him; why Nico didn’t ask any of the friends in his course.

Maybe, a tiny voice in his head whispered, it was the same reason Marti didn’t suggest introducing him to Filippo who knew a lot about photography, who’d probably be more than ready to help out and meet someone new, who had similar interests.

He was busy looking through the photos, when suddenly the sensation of something smooth and icy on his neck snapped him out of it, a cold shock on his skin, and a shiver ran down his back as he instinctively jerked up his shoulders.

It was gone as quickly as it came, and left his skin cool, then a plastic cup with iced coffee was placed into his hand, and Nico’s face came back into his field of view. Marti felt the urge to reach out and punch him for the unpleasant surprise, but he resisted, and Nico just grinned and proceeded to open his own coffee.

Marti faintly remembered his so-called plan, but honestly, when he thought about it more he came to the conclusion that it was all Niccolò's fault. He was the one who kept doing this, kept looking at him in a way that made Marti's heart beat faster, kept touching him. Marti was 100% innocent.

“Don’t upset the person holding all your work in his hands,” Marti threatened, only half-serious.

Nico's eyes—sunshine making them soft like honey—were back on him, a moment too long, and he shrugged one shoulder at the implication, nonchalant as ever. “You wouldn’t.”

Something about the confident way he said it tugged at Marti’s stomach, and he also took a sip of the coffee to soothe it.

Nico made a disgusted face. “Way too bitter. God, this is awful.”

*

He's walked around so much that day his legs felt heavy as he climbed up the stairs to the rooftop. It was nearly dark, the sun so low it wasn’t orange but red at the horizon and the sky something between purple and grey, and it was the first time he stepped back outside after they finished their tour and Nico vanished to edit the results a few hours ago.

There was a group of young people in his usual spot, and he tuned out their voices and turned his attention to his phone. He lit up a cigarette and scrolled through Instagram. Until he heard Nico’s name effortlessly dropped into conversation.

“Why did you even bring this?” A dark-haired guy pointed to a big book in one of the girls’ hands.

“I borrowed it from Nico, a week ago, but I don’t need it anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading 💙 tell me what you think in a comment or talk to me [on tumblr!](https://annefraid.tumblr.com/post/187427404950/find-your-way-back-chapter-6-giuliamed-skam)


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